


Pretty Face

by CookieCatSU



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Bismuth is the best GF, Era of The Renegade Pearl, F/F, Finding Ones' self, Identity Issues, No one can convince me otherwise, Pearl struggles with that fact, Pearls are like Homeworld's equivalent of trophy wives, Prejudicism of sorts, and beyond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25687135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CookieCatSU/pseuds/CookieCatSU
Summary: Pearl has mixed feelings about being called pretty. It's such a doubled edged sword. So riddled with complexities.Bismuth helps to make it surprisingly simple, though.
Relationships: Pearl/Bismuth
Comments: 2
Kudos: 52





	Pretty Face

**Author's Note:**

> Bismuth Casual was a ride, huh. This was written before that aired, by the way.

She didn't want to be called pretty.

Pearls were coveted, seen as objects. Jewels to be displayed. Yes, Pearls were pretty, but that's all they ever were, delicate little ornaments, too whimsical and fluttery, too weak and slight, and fragile, to think for themselves.

"Oh, she's a pearl. You know their heads are always in the clouds" vapid, cutting words, spat right at the side of an unmoving, bowed head, with toes pointed forward and an empty smile. Not equal. Not real. Pretty. Just pretty. That's all Pearls were. For a long time, that was all she was. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The first time she became substantial, more than rattling thoughts and a forced, serene smile, was when Pink Diamond turned to her, and told her to 'imagine-'.

When some higher ranking gem said, "you're pretty". It was a compliment that was half an insult, hidden between the lines, yet all too clear to any Pearl. There lay an implication there, that pretty really meant weak. Pretty meant dull. Pretty meant incapable.

Their graceful hands, slim and tapering, were made to carry papers. Flexible, slight frames are made for dancing, pirouettes and toes pointed starboard and impossible flips in midair. They were not made to think. To decide.

And they must have been, weak, because they were a Pearl, and they were pretty. That's all you were. Because that's all anyone saw.

* * *

When Pearl is first called pretty, on Earth, she's angry.

Her hackles raise and her lip pulls in a snarl, and she allows herself to simply be drenched in the feeling. It feels good, to indulge, to let the feeling of rage and indignance take over, in a way she never would have been allowed on Homeworld. No, she would have had to keep the frustration to herself, to push the sensation in, in, in, until she felt sick with it, because Pearls were supposed to be soft and unassuming. Pearls did not get angry. Pearls did not snap.

She revels in her new found freedoms. Balls her fists and arches her back and narrows her eyes all squinty and mean, with a fervid steel sharp enough to cut flesh. She gets agitated and frustrated, and glares the gem down.

Pearl has shed her skin, so to speak. She wears the face of a rebel, the tongue of a warrior. Her hands have become rough and calloused from the grip of her sabre, and her gaze is sharp and predatory, and she can glare a quartz down, down, down, with her eyes alone. She's all sharp angles and rough edges, sticky barbs replacing smooth, tactile welcomingness. She's the opposite of all she's meant to be, and the freedom of it all exhilarated her (exhilarated and terrified and she feels like a mesh of just everything).

She's more (she's the same, she hasn't changed, not a bit. She's just in a new frame of reference, a new shade of light).

Yes, the tone is antagonizing. It says, 'What's a pretty thing like you doing out here, fighting'. It really means, 'What made you think you were capable, of fighting'.

Her fellow rebel, a huge, staggering Quartz newly recruited, looks her over, like fresh meat. Like some object.

"You're a pretty little thing" Pretty implied stupid, and Pearl was anything but stupid.

It bothers her. More than she'd like to admit. She's reminded of ceremonial balls and frilly dresses and fawning, uppercrust gems just waiting to talk about how beautiful the youngest diamond's Pearl is. Fawning over the ornament.

Her eyes narrow.

"There's nothing little about me" She replies, sharp and biting. She tries to keep a tiny semblance of calm, because she knows the Quartz meant no offense (it was not on purpose, not intentional: it was ingrained and normal and almost expected). Her grip tightens around her sabre, clenching, before loosening finally.

She sucks in a breath, still fuming, and tries not to shatter the gem with her gaze alone.

"I'm sorry. It was a compliment" Except, it wasn't. Not when she's spent months, working on becoming more than that. More than just a pretty face. More.

So why is that all they can see?

She's still no one, nothing.

Pearl sniffs with disdain (another thing she'd never be able to do back on Homeworld) and turns on her heel to leave.

* * *

Thousands of years later, she sits over the beach, legs dangling off of the temple palm, turned laundry area, turned balcony. The sky is sparkling with stars, the wind is warm with ocean spray, and her hands are littered with sand grit and granite debris from hours of brushing her fingertips against the stone surface beneath her.

She is calm, and relaxed. She hasn't felt like that in awhile.

There's a familiar presence beside her, warm and steady, just as it has been for centuries. The hand resting on her back nearly engulfs her.

They laugh. The sound curls up into the sky, mingling and mixing into a dizzying soup that has Pearl grinning, so wide, it hurts.

Bismuth falls silent for a moment, simply watching her. Delicate, fluttering hands, expansive, bright blue eyes. Enamored with her tinkling laugh, melodious and warm, snagging at her chest, pulling her in, so pleasantly captivating.

"You're beautiful" And it's spoken in a tone that is so warm. In awe, almost. Filled with appreciation, affection. Amazed.

The Agate managing their Reef looks her over, up and down, scoping her out for defects, before a smile forms on her face. Satisfied. Condescending.

Pearl stiffens, and she knows Bismuth does not understand. She can tell by the look on her face, the mystified confusion in dark eyes. She turns away abruptly.

The feeling that forms in her chest, almost crackling across her fingertips, is a discomfort, nothing more and nothing less, but it gnaws at her all the same. They're equals. Have been for a long time. And she knows Bismuth means nothing by the words. So why is this eating at her, eating and chewing and chomping away?

"I'm sorry" She blinks. Her gaze turns skyward, "I just don't want to be thought of as just pretty. As if I don't have a brain in my skull, so to speak, and thoughts and desires and skills, because I do… and, I'm rambling"

She was just so frustrated. She was so much more than that (was trying to be more than that).

Bismuth laughs. She laughs, loud and abrasive- as is expected of her. But when she talks, her words are encouraging and comforting, tinged with an amused disbelief that has Pearl smiling with her.

"Are you kidding? Of course I don't think of you as just pretty. You're the freaking Renegade, for stars sake. You kicked butt and took names during the rebellion, had all those quartz running scared. You made it look like it was nothin' sweetheart, like the total badass you are. You're the smartest gem I know, and you never back down from a fight and… point is, you're incredible"

Pearl laughs.

She supposed she... just needed a reminder.

"What a flatterer" She says with another giggle, swatting at her arm.

Bismuth chuckles, "It's all true. You're intelligent, and skilled, and you just happen to have the prettiest blue eyes"

Pearl knows what she means. The shell is not what makes you.

You are what you made yourself. They both know it, all too well, have seen it, have done it, have been that gem in the making, reaching and grasping for some new purpose, for some new meaning. Trying, struggling, to be who they want to be.

Pearl decides that sometimes, it's okay to be called pretty. It's okay, because Bismuth understands. She sees all of her, all of what she is. 'Your pretty' from her does not mean, 'your weak', or 'your stupid'.

Bismuth wraps her arms around her, careful not to be too stifling, too suffocating. The gesture is comforting. Pearl presses her cheek against the inside of her arm, and murmurs a quiet thank you.

She does not just see a pretty face. A lost, delicate little ornament. She sees a gem, with a mind, who stares down burly warriors, and fixes backyard space ships, and frets over her adoptive son long grown up.

She sees all of Pearl, and Pearl is thankful for it.

* * *

The next time Bismuth turns to her, a smile on her lips, and says, "looking good, doll"

Pearl preens. Slips her dainty little fingers between Bismuth's larger ones, grinning at the little hitch in her breath. Turns to her, a smile across her lips, teal jacket all sharp angles, salmon hair all sweeping curves, and grins wide.

"You're looking mighty handsome, yourself"


End file.
